by Lia Riley
Within a few short hours, she’d become Mrs. Reginald Winter, uniting two long-friendly families.
Such a thought shouldn’t freeze the blood in her veins, but nerves—please just be nerves—had been growing since Reggie’s proposal a few months ago. This morning they’d reached King Kong dimensions.
Here’s the truth, Forrest: If a man keeps after you, you’ll never love him, but you might eventually say yes.
Especially when your dying mother made it clear this marriage was her single most cherished dream for your future. Reggie, or Reginald George Bartholomew Winter the IV’s bloodline made up a Who’s Who from the Mayflower if that sort of thing turned you on. Personally, Eden wasn’t hot for Puritan genes, especially when her own relatives were on the same ship.
Throughout her childhood, Reggie had always been kind when their paths crossed at society functions, or at least not actively mean, unlike the classmates at her elite all-girls school who had dubbed her “Eden the Ew,” snapped secret locker room pictures of her late-blooming body, and emailed them to their “brother” school. These days, she flat-ironed her bushy hair into subservience and Mother had paid a king’s ransom to straighten her teeth. Being bullied might have made her stronger, but there was no denying that interacting with others rendered her cautious and a little weary. A perfectly normal reaction after having her A cups rated as D’s and F’s by cute guys across MySpace.
When Reggie proposed the evening of the funeral, repeatedly reassuring Eden it’s what her mother wanted, what made sense for both their families, she said yes because she loved what he represented: security. Daddy died in a freak ski accident fifteen years ago and losing Mother meant she was an orphan at twenty-seven. Not as if she would clutch a bowl of gruel à la Dickens or be beaten at a reform school like Jane Eyre, but she craved a family. Children. Laughter. Home-cooked holiday meals that weren’t silent catered affairs but full of squeals and spilled food. And a man seated across the table.
Perhaps strangely, she never pictured anyone’s specific face, just a vague sense of “rightness,” a kindhearted nature and booming, infectious laugh.
Mother’s agoraphobia had grown in conjunction with her terminal diagnosis until she could barely cope if Eden popped away from the penthouse for an hour to volunteer at a no-kill rescue shelter, take a cooking class, or go for a run. Committing to any sort of professional work schedule had been out of the question. Taking care of Mother had been her life. Now, Reggie would take care of her. And maybe she’d figure out her life’s purpose at last.
In the outer living room, beyond the bedroom, the suite’s door opened. “We’re meeting at half past ten in front of the chapel.” Reggie’s cultured New England drawl rang out.
Eden froze, ears pricking. What was he doing back at the room? She’d cancelled her hair appointment to mope in private after he announced his intention to spend the morning camped out in the hotel’s complimentary workspace.
“Relax, babe. Everything is going exactly to plan.” Reggie used an unfamiliar cajoling tone. “Not a single mention of a prenup.”
Eden balled her fists on her lap. Who the hell was this “babe” and why was her fiancé talking prenups?
“How about we spend the weekend at that little place in the Hamptons as soon as the honeymoon is over?” A pause. “Babe, stop, don’t be like that. This is all for you—us. Getting Eden to marry me saved our asses.” Another long pause. “Fine, yes, you saved my ass, Suki. It was a stroke of genius working through the mother. Rolling that crazy old bat was almost too easy.”
Suki? Reggie’s PA, Suki? Suki who had attended the philharmonic with them last week? Eden crushed the veil between her hands. This couldn’t be happening. Impossible. A bad dream. But maybe most surprising is that she was surprised at all.
Did Eden the Ew get the guy? The happy ending? She punched her fists against her thighs as her throat grew thick.
No.
Nothing had changed in all these years. She was still the butt of the joke. But why? There’d never been a clear reason why she’d been bullied. Most teenagers went through an awkward phase. It was as if there had been an invisible sign hanging over her head reading “Easy Target.”
Her private dream for a sweet, stable family life drowned under the nightmarishly wet kissing noises Reggie made into his phone. Guess she hadn’t experienced enough embarrassment and shame. There was always room for a little more.
“Hey, I’ve got to change into my suit and suck down at least three drinks to survive the ceremony,” he continued after still more nauseating lip smacks. Was he actually tonguing the speaker? Disgusting. “I’ll call again soon. Love you too, babe.”
Oh no. Reggie was about to discover her frozen on the bed, hulk smashing her veil, and would realize in a flash that his dirty little secret was out of the bag. She jumped up and eyed the closet. No, not there, that’s where his suit hung. She ran to the bathroom, relieved her bare feet provided a noiseless retreat, and slid into the tub, inching behind the curtain, back pressed against the tiles. Could she win an award for the most cliché hiding spot?
Please don’t let him have to pee . . . or worse.
A small bit of luck. Reggie changed without entering the bathroom. “Forrest Gump,” he said, giving his obnoxious chuckle on his way back to the living room. “What a great movie.”
EDEN DIDN’T BUDGE for ten minutes. Ten minutes that felt like ten ice ages grinding away with glacial slowness. Betrayal and anger left her insides scoured. Reggie had lobbied for a no-fuss Vegas elopement and now it made sense. She dropped the veil into the tub and trudged, dazed, back into the bedroom. He planned to marry her for money. What had he done to squander his own sizeable trust fund?
She bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood. Not her problem. She and Reggie had known each other since they were infants. True, she hadn’t loved him, not in a heady romantic way, but she assumed they’d build a life fostered by mutual affection and respect. That he wanted what she did, loving children and stability.
Turned out she didn’t know Reggie. She didn’t know anything.
What was that old saying? When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.
Well, she wouldn’t sit here and allow her two-timing fiancé to play her for an ass a moment longer. Her tennis shoes perched next to the dresser and a single word blasted through her mind.
Run.
She slid her feet in and tied up the laces. No socks, but they felt otherwise fine.
Yes, run away. She grabbed her purse and bolted from the lavish suite without a backward glance.
The hall was empty but the elevators were risky. It would be her luck if Reggie lingered in the lobby. A fresh surge of rage increased her pace. How dare he think to manipulate Mother in her fragile final months? And the nerve of Suki, putting through Eden’s calls at his office with an air of friendly professionalism. That two-face must have laughed off her Jimmy Choos.
A door flew open and a scantily clad black-haired woman tumbled from her room, brandishing a wooden ventriloquist’s puppet.
“Where is he?” she screamed.
“Who?” Eden leapt back.
“That fucking cowboy.”
“Sorry,” Eden said, creeping away. The woman looked ready to commit bodily harm. “No cowboys out here.”
The woman rubbed her nose, amped, clearly on something. “He’s not with you?”
“Me?” Eden pointed at herself, breaking into an incredulous smile despite the morning’s insanity. “Cowboys aren’t my type.” Western music put her teeth on edge and the only plaid she preferred was on the kilt of a fictional Scottish lord.
“Well, la-di-da.” The woman snorted, marching back into her own suite. “Lucky you.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m lucky,” Eden muttered as the door slammed behind her. There was a stairwell at the far end of the hall. At least this exit gave her a better chance at avoiding unwelcome detection. Throwing open the door, she nearly collided with a tuxedo-clad w
aiter bearing a silver room-service tray.
“Oh! Sorry about that! Sorry,” Eden said, windmilling her arms.
“Congratulations.” He executed a neat sidestep with a glance to her wedding dress.
“Thanks.” She forced a grin. “I’ll be sure to pass them along to my fiancé and his mistress.”
He gave her a double-take, probably wondering if he heard her right, and then she was alone. This was the top floor so nowhere to go but down.
When she reached the bottom of the stairwell she peered through the door. This wasn’t the lobby but a service area. Two hallways split before her. Which would be the best route to follow?
Seeing how her previous life-decision-making methods had totally failed, perhaps she needed to return to a more time-tested approach. She pointed between the two, mumbling “Eenie, Meenie, Miny, Mo.”
Left it was.
As she jogged down the hall, an exit door appeared. She pushed through and stood outside. People walked past without a second look. Obviously there were stranger sights in this town than a wild-eyed, panting bride on the sidewalk in tennis shoes. She smoothed her skirt as if one less wrinkle would improve her out-of-control situation.
What now? She crossed the street and aimlessly walked up the block. The idea of returning to Manhattan raised the hair on the back of her neck. Her few acquaintances were better friends with Reggie—they’d side with him, that is, if they didn’t already know about his duplicity. The penthouse would always be Mother’s, the dark, antique-stuffed castle she’d used to keep the world at bay.
With no real friends, no family, and no job, there was simply no compelling reason to go back to New York. It didn’t feel like home, it never had.
Up ahead, Reggie’s gelled hair came into view. He faced the opposite direction, up at the crosswalk waiting for the light to change, on the phone yet again.
Please, please, please don’t turn around.
She couldn’t afford a confrontation before having some semblance of a plan, and certainly not while wearing this wedding dress like a little fool. The smell of coffee and hash browns wafted past. She glanced at the overhead sign: “Sal’s Diner.” Perfect. Her shoulders dropped from below her ears. Maple syrup could drown her sorrows and the sugar buzz would help fuel her next steps.
She needed an escape plan and fast.
Chapter Three
VEGAS AND HANGOVERS went together like Tabasco and eggs. Archer drained his first cup of coffee, waiting for the waitress to circle back and take his order. Hurry it up, sweetheart. In another two minutes, he’d resort to pounding back a few of these nondairy creamers. A woman slid into the vacant stool beside him, the only one still available at the counter this crowded Sunday morning. He didn’t have to glance over to know it was a woman—the air changed, faintly infused with warm vanilla sugar, sensual yet comforting, like lingering in a kitchen with a baking cake.
The inside of his mouth, on the other hand, tasted like he’d gargled with a dead possum. He tugged the Lifesavers from his hip pocket and unwrapped the foil. First choice was cherry, his favorite.
“May I have one of those?” The husky sweetness in his neighbor’s voice caused a tight knot to form in his chest. The tone was ambiguously cultured. Not from around here.
He turned, extending the pack and met a pair of sparkling grey-silver eyes, the same shade as the meteorite Sawyer displayed on his mantel. Forget trying not to stare. Something inside him twisted then righted. “Yeah sure.”
All. Those. Freckles.
If he had one weakness, it was for a woman’s freckles, and the powers that be had seen fit to allocate this stunner with more than her fair share.
“Thank you.” She popped off the cherry and hesitantly placed it onto the end of her tongue. “My dad used to eat these.” Her expression grew wistful as she lost herself in memory. “I haven’t had one in forever.”
He absently took the next in the roll, barely noticing the pineapple flavor.
“Ready, Freddy?” The waitress slammed her order pad on the Formica, drumming chipped red-painted nails.
“Ladies first.” Archer gestured toward Freckles, unable to remember his planned breakfast order, let alone his name. Lust at first sight was nothing new to him, but this was something entirely different, like an invisible undertow had caught him in its grip and he didn’t mind the receding shore.
Freckles scanned the menu, chewing her distractingly adorable lower lip. “You have cinnamon-swirl bread?”
“Sure do.” The waitress snapped her gum.
“I’d like two slices of that, please,” she said quietly.
The waitress nodded before glancing to Archer. “What about you, Cowboy?”
“Excuse me?” Freckles leaned forward with an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t quite finished. I’d like the cinnamon-swirl bread, but as French toast.”
The waitress’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not on the menu.”
“Yes, I see that, but French toast is. Perhaps the chef would be amenable to making a slight substitution?”
“Chef?” The waitress smirked. “Gary,” she called over one shoulder to the cook line. “Someone here just called you a chef.”
“And so they should.” The yell from the kitchen rose over the sound of sizzling grease. “This place deserves a Michelin star.” Raucous laughter followed.
“If Gary could sprinkle some chopped nuts on top, and include a dollop of whip cream, that would be wonderful. Oh, and are the spiced apples homemade?”
The waitress propped a hand on her ample hip. “Nope.”
Freckles gave a soft sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay you want ’em or okay you don’t?”
“Yes, I’d like them, please. And a nonfat cappuccino.”
“We have caff or decaf here.”
“Caff, then. I mean, caffeinated would be fine.” She frowned at the nondairy creamers. “And real milk, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish, Highness.” The waitress didn’t bother controlling her eye roll. The look she leveled at Archer said, “You going to be a pain in the ass too, sunshine?”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Archer said quickly. “But with a side of bacon—wait, make that two sides.” He grinned at Freckles. “Everything is better with bacon, am I right or am I right?”
“Sorry.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it over her lap. “I don’t eat red meat.”
His smile faltered. Guess no one was perfect. Freckles didn’t have a flirty fun look either. In fact, this was a type he normally avoided like the plague. Prim. Proper. Prudish. The three P’s of doom. Still, he was curious what she’d look like farther down the alphabet. Sexy. Seductive. Sultry.
After the waitress left, an awkward moment passed while “Rock Around the Clock” blared from the tinny sound system. Besides those eyes and freckles, her hair was red, not carrot-orange but with the same threads of tawny gold, amber, and rose as in a mountain sunset. Her mouth formed a perfect bow, the kind normally seen on actresses in the late-night black-and-white movies he watched when unable to sleep.
But for all his gawking, he’d missed a key detail, a vital fucking piece of information. Freckles wore a wedding dress. His heart dropped a few inches. A stupid reaction because he’d head home in an hour, and Vegas was the last place a man should fall head over heels.
“Excuse me.” He coughed into his fist. “Looks like congratulations are in order.”
“Why?” She reached out to take the white mug and plastic glass of milk the waitress slid forward.
“Where I’m from that’s what people normally say on a wedding day.”
“Of course.” She mumbled, as if in afterthought, “Thank you.” Her hollow-eyed gaze didn’t sit right. Something was off.
“Where’s the lucky guy?” He glanced around, as if a dude in a tuxedo was suddenly going to materialize.
“Otherwise occupied.” She checked her thin gold wristwatch. “He’ll be at the chapel down the street in thirty
minutes.”
Otherwise occupied with what? Unless her fella was an A-grade asshat, no business could be more important than being right here.
“Tell me something,” Archer said, casually fiddling with his fork, wanting to press, but in a way that didn’t arouse her suspicion. “How does it feel? Knowing you’re about to take the plunge?”
“I . . .” She threw up her hands with a rueful smile. “There are no words. Guess I’m speechless.”
He swallowed back the unexpected lump of jealousy. “Sounds like the real deal then.” Nothing was wrong with the situation. She had nerves and he was being an idiot.
“What about you?” Freckles asked.
“What about me?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nah.” He gave a sheepish smile. “Never been that kind of guy.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She ducked her head and tore a corner off her napkin. “I should never have made such a supposition. How heteronormative of me.”
“Heteronorma-what?” Sounded like a medical condition.
She smoothed a finger over her eyebrow. “I assumed you were straight.”
“Oh I’m not gay, sweetheart.” He threw back his head, laughing. “But I’m not the settling down type either.”
What type of guy are you? Eden thought her cowboy looked like he’d been thrown from a bull and ridden over by a horse. Correction. Not her cowboy. He was so not her cowboy. In fact, she never understood the national fixation with them. Sure they had nice butts or whatever, but give her a man in French cuffs any day of the week.
Although the idea of a jacket and tie only made her think of Reggie, and she couldn’t picture her about-to-be jilted fiancé if she wanted a prayer of keeping down breakfast. And truth be told, that cinnamon bread French toast looked amazing, even if those were canned apples and bottled whipped cream swirls.
Cowboy turned and waved a strip of burned bacon in her direction. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” That teasing mouth and carved jawline could tempt a nun, but the bacon left her stone cold.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”